If there is really a part of life in which we are required to fight, let us hope we can first learn to fight for love.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
a hope
Writing is in all of us
it flows forth from the alpha to the omega
our spirit there awakens the impossible
to be the reason and the birth for this occasion
How long ago we searched all of our brothers,
our sisters and our angels coming forwards,
and swayed our royal crown of love and anger
all filtered through the masks of the eternal?
It comes forth from our yesterdays and summers
all glowing like the tips of mountains burning,
and while the requisite of life demands a high price,
we know that our tomorrow never trembles.
it flows forth from the alpha to the omega
our spirit there awakens the impossible
to be the reason and the birth for this occasion
How long ago we searched all of our brothers,
our sisters and our angels coming forwards,
and swayed our royal crown of love and anger
all filtered through the masks of the eternal?
It comes forth from our yesterdays and summers
all glowing like the tips of mountains burning,
and while the requisite of life demands a high price,
we know that our tomorrow never trembles.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
preliminary notes
So what is the importance really? What did art do for us? Enlighten...enrich?
We had through history an expectation to be fullfilled by the arts, from the greek times even we had both skepticism and great hope of a medium of purification or the platonic lie which would make the true ideas even more unclear because of their imitative nature. At this point however Plato did not think the same of myths as he did of art and at what point exactly did we end up understanding art itself as a mythology of sorts? To find this point of conceptual transition is partly the beginning of understanding the cristalization of the 20th century's "isms" and the point of convergence or at the same time bifurcation of art mythologies such as those of Joyce, and the archetypal presence in Thomas Mann. Perhaps romantic music made this trajectory inevitable but even if the fusion of art and myth in the sense of Joseph Campbell's views came as a sort of logical replacement for a religious necessity, there seems to be also in this logic a black hole like density of purpose from which simplicity can both not escape or be free. In the end art must always return to its point of origin, to its birth place, the moment that could well be called a singularity.
We had through history an expectation to be fullfilled by the arts, from the greek times even we had both skepticism and great hope of a medium of purification or the platonic lie which would make the true ideas even more unclear because of their imitative nature. At this point however Plato did not think the same of myths as he did of art and at what point exactly did we end up understanding art itself as a mythology of sorts? To find this point of conceptual transition is partly the beginning of understanding the cristalization of the 20th century's "isms" and the point of convergence or at the same time bifurcation of art mythologies such as those of Joyce, and the archetypal presence in Thomas Mann. Perhaps romantic music made this trajectory inevitable but even if the fusion of art and myth in the sense of Joseph Campbell's views came as a sort of logical replacement for a religious necessity, there seems to be also in this logic a black hole like density of purpose from which simplicity can both not escape or be free. In the end art must always return to its point of origin, to its birth place, the moment that could well be called a singularity.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
an attempt at self understanding
A fountain is something that can never end...
Why this phrase? There are various elements involved first the word fountain and the concept something that can never end. What is a fountain and what does it mean whether it could contain within it that concept of something eternal. I could simply say a fountain is eternal but this would only play on one of the meanings possible. A fountain by nature when it is active perpetuates its activity, it flows it gives and it comes back second by second, it doesnt tire or do something new but its dependent on mechanics. To say a fountain is eternal is hyperbole but to say that it is something that can never end is going to the essence of what the fountain is during one given moment, it is the essence of our subjective dream of what it is, it is the truth mixed with imperfection, just as parallel lines cannot intersect in reality yet to our eyes the do eventually meet and this is the paradox of what we see as beautiful and perhaps the beginning of what is love.
Why this phrase? There are various elements involved first the word fountain and the concept something that can never end. What is a fountain and what does it mean whether it could contain within it that concept of something eternal. I could simply say a fountain is eternal but this would only play on one of the meanings possible. A fountain by nature when it is active perpetuates its activity, it flows it gives and it comes back second by second, it doesnt tire or do something new but its dependent on mechanics. To say a fountain is eternal is hyperbole but to say that it is something that can never end is going to the essence of what the fountain is during one given moment, it is the essence of our subjective dream of what it is, it is the truth mixed with imperfection, just as parallel lines cannot intersect in reality yet to our eyes the do eventually meet and this is the paradox of what we see as beautiful and perhaps the beginning of what is love.
Friday, July 3, 2009
afterthought
Why does the truth insist
when you only laugh half jokingly?
like the many hearts around you
drawn like birds to your breast.
What is it that lives inside there
moving faster when the night comes?
when you only laugh half jokingly?
like the many hearts around you
drawn like birds to your breast.
What is it that lives inside there
moving faster when the night comes?
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
a secret (about your secret)
Its said a mountain doesn't move
yet three nights of wake is a mountain
and then your heart went through the motions
of finding itself a mountain
did you later realized it?
theres a mountain inside you.
yet three nights of wake is a mountain
and then your heart went through the motions
of finding itself a mountain
did you later realized it?
theres a mountain inside you.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
La técnica (unfinished)
Entre el porqué y el hacer
cómo, donde, porqué y cuando
encontramos equilibrio entre los vórtices
de fulcros pivotales y péndulos contrarios
el pedestal y el circular
el sudor terco de las llemas
duras de los dedos se agitan.
Mas la razón y la memoria
observan todo y rigen treguas
de pensar como el cienpiés
que en cada pata piensa mas que notas
pero nunca se le olvida que esta vivo.
El otro centro, el corazón no es cuanto
y ni dónde ni cómo pero rige
la distancia entre los puntos de la mente
y el espíritu que guarda ayer sin vela
de los que viven hoy por causa amoris
y roban el panteón de tantas musas.
La razón, el ego, orgullo el mecanismo
se diluye cuando está bien entrenado
y se amansa cuando ruega el vago canto
y algun cantar mas simple por su bien aflora.
cómo, donde, porqué y cuando
encontramos equilibrio entre los vórtices
de fulcros pivotales y péndulos contrarios
el pedestal y el circular
el sudor terco de las llemas
duras de los dedos se agitan.
Mas la razón y la memoria
observan todo y rigen treguas
de pensar como el cienpiés
que en cada pata piensa mas que notas
pero nunca se le olvida que esta vivo.
El otro centro, el corazón no es cuanto
y ni dónde ni cómo pero rige
la distancia entre los puntos de la mente
y el espíritu que guarda ayer sin vela
de los que viven hoy por causa amoris
y roban el panteón de tantas musas.
La razón, el ego, orgullo el mecanismo
se diluye cuando está bien entrenado
y se amansa cuando ruega el vago canto
y algun cantar mas simple por su bien aflora.
compendium I
I dreamed the beginnings of a castle
the sound of old fortifications
a structure neither suspended or living
and with such great tales of yesterday
inscribed in a fulcrum passed the years.
The house , the old mansion diverted
exchanging forms of simplicity and grandeur
and in its walls of stone curtly written
the name of ten thousand maidens
whose different fathers still quarreled
while just the one mother sang to them.
They made themselves the cause of memory in my laughter
and witnesses of a trial eternal
where time and synchronicity
as rivals made their plaudits
and became friends
sad inmates of their love mutual.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Recuerdo y ambición
Buscaba entre reseñas con las ansias de ser loco
de sincronicidades y universos paralelos
y la teoría Nietscheana, la recurrencia eterna
me prometió ilusiones y tan grandes encuentros.
Entre la cruz eterna y el mar de mil verdades
se alzaba el desaforo y desmayaba el tiempo
las hortas de desgracias son como historias tristes
que sin tener en fin el karma nacen de los dedos.
Si predeterminado el nacer no es ya esperanza.
¿Quien sabe si la extremaunción nos otorgara el cielo?
El foro agudo de la mente, no es completo sin el alma
que alcanza su objetivo si de largo si de lejos.
Monday, June 8, 2009
La proseción
To write is just emulation
to be more nice just say variation
of what we don't really know with certainty.
In life we visit a library
or a café where the drinks all mix liquor
a place full of subjects and knowledge
of men who dance on their head
preparing their disparate passages
and hope for best in their readers
and maybe just in themselves.
The rapport, the image,creation
began just endless procession
when the blind singer with thick hair
passed his words to those the younger
who enraptured and still bolder
decided our fate in echoes
and still more regained their animas.
For those who point in secret language
and engage in search of neutrinos
of the soul and of the morning
they think to say and speak with kindness.
And we can just follow the cycle
of our life and the procession.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
unfinished
(L'âme s'architecture, montrait sa grandeur
et sa solitude…)
Por cuanto he visto y por cuanto entiendo
que entre mis brazos torpes ya no se mecen zardas
que si el azul del cielo en tristes ecos desvanece
es porque quiso hablar sin destrozar la aurora.
Recuerdo el lobo triste aquel morando en las estepas
y algún juego glorioso de erudición y celos
pero aún mas veo claro el guaguancó infinito
que me pasó tan cerca y me quemó mis alas.
por cuanto digo y ahora vi y por cuanto
busqué entre las razones sin retocar los trinos
y sin hacer murmullos ni otro canto de esperanza
memoricé un debate entre mis ojos y mi pecho.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
To my friend Ilaria
There is no past and no tomorrow
the veil of truth is thin
but what we make of it is golden
and in our precious time we seek the garlands of our passion.
And why then should our memories take root in the oblivion?
A secret well with water that began the dream with ashes
will someday be a cause to begin following the ecos
of souls adrift tomorrow, we can speak until the night descends
but today we throw our anchors.
The earth is still alive and we are part of it
and when we smell its ardour and our roots grow in their placements
a yet discreet entwine does mark the spots of our illusions
and the hope to find the northern star speaks thousands of parole.
the veil of truth is thin
but what we make of it is golden
and in our precious time we seek the garlands of our passion.
And why then should our memories take root in the oblivion?
A secret well with water that began the dream with ashes
will someday be a cause to begin following the ecos
of souls adrift tomorrow, we can speak until the night descends
but today we throw our anchors.
The earth is still alive and we are part of it
and when we smell its ardour and our roots grow in their placements
a yet discreet entwine does mark the spots of our illusions
and the hope to find the northern star speaks thousands of parole.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Entre requiebro y despertar
Yo pensaba el mar cuando te ví vestida
de gris, de negro y púrpura y tu piel canela
ya me hacía yo un trozo de huracán perdido
mas si pienso olvido justo en tu mirada.
¿Fue por cuanto tiempo acompañé tus ojos?
nunca haciendo caso sino de sonrisas
poco a poco viendo como fueron lágrimas
anclando las torres de un castillo al alma.
Hallas deducciones, o descubres oro
mil permutaciones de almas infinitas.
¿Pero acaso viste como las razones
iban disolviéndose en la noche estera?
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
To a beautiful woman
The dream of your eyes
Doesn't rest in your barefoot nature
Are they the beginning of the sky?
Or the summit of a memory?
Are they valleys
adrift in life
held by one heart?
In those shores I've seen tears dancing
glittering from your heart
moist with pain and happiness
washing your breast of memories
and the memory of the sea...
A whisper of hope
Naked returns to the sky
whose darkness is so sweet
And your eyes between shadows
make the rounds of the moon
While they caress my dreams...
Are they maybe what remains?
what rests of the day
When it is over...
There i see them
singing stories
and moving pictures
through empty halls
all of them were
your portraits without you...
their shadows envelop a dream
a dream full of life
of life and the song of life...
if there is a song of life, it lives in them
and envelops my heart
If I have a heart,
It lives in you…
I see them,
like the fixed embrace of the Black sea
they hold me...
while the green and red flowers at your feet
move so slowly in the water
for you girl, born of the sea
where life itself
smiles with deep sobs
and calls the night
by its most ancient name,
you.
-----
life
I see life
life inside
this torrent
torrent
of music, of song…, love, hope in tomorrow, a photograph, a smile, a scream, an embrace, a kiss, a heart broken, love of the night, hope of yesterday, a painting, a sigh, a whisper a cry in the night. (A child, an infant running in your hair). A cry of happiness too, the smell of the sea, the smell of jasmines and the sea. The photo of you with a flower, a red flower in your hair. You are white you are dark, your hand is open, your hairs thrown back in a thousand different directions they all point to the earth and yet between the shadows again I see them running towards a fountain. A fountain that I wish for you.
-------
pensamos
Pensamos,
en el momento,
la vida como cuando no pensamos
el destello de un espíritu
no es el fin de un momento
mas continua un camino.
Solo en ese instante
nacen las vertientes
de nos sueños.
Ayer pense en el destino
y temblaba mi mano
como de hojas secas.
La raíz de de un escape,
se mecía
no en deriva de mis sueños
Pero si por mi desdén
a la razón que nos ciega
cuando encontramos estrellas
de tan cerca y de tan lejos.
Inscrito en mis labios
se encontraba ese olor
aroma de un ayer vestido,
del fulgor del este entre mis dedos.
La cruz del pasado,
no existe en el agora
y se desvana en un futuro
donde solo amor nos resta
como atracción entre dos gotas
de agua o de vino.
en el momento,
la vida como cuando no pensamos
el destello de un espíritu
no es el fin de un momento
mas continua un camino.
Solo en ese instante
nacen las vertientes
de nos sueños.
Ayer pense en el destino
y temblaba mi mano
como de hojas secas.
La raíz de de un escape,
se mecía
no en deriva de mis sueños
Pero si por mi desdén
a la razón que nos ciega
cuando encontramos estrellas
de tan cerca y de tan lejos.
Inscrito en mis labios
se encontraba ese olor
aroma de un ayer vestido,
del fulgor del este entre mis dedos.
La cruz del pasado,
no existe en el agora
y se desvana en un futuro
donde solo amor nos resta
como atracción entre dos gotas
de agua o de vino.
A mis amigos, to my friends
Hace unos días comencé a tocar de nuevo, y vi que se lo debía a la gente que quiero. Ahora quiero escribir también de nuevo y se lo dedico a ustedes, todos que se cruzan conmigo y con quienes quiero ser mas sincero.
Some days ago I started to play again and I saw that I owed this to the people that I love. Now I wish to write again and I dedicate it to my friends, all of you who cross paths with me and with whom I wish to be more sincere.
Some days ago I started to play again and I saw that I owed this to the people that I love. Now I wish to write again and I dedicate it to my friends, all of you who cross paths with me and with whom I wish to be more sincere.
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